


increments of longing

by NotPersephone



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 13:57:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15390222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: She watches him sleep, from her spot in the corner armchair; it feels like a cushioned fortress where she barricades her feelings in and waits for the tide of the looming confrontation to arrive.Prompt: The first time Bedelia really cried in front of Hannibal.





	increments of longing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Caissa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caissa/gifts).



Her hand hesitates, palm hovering inches away from his face, before she finally touches his forehead. Fingers linger briefly, pressing gently against his no longer febrile skin, just to make sure. Absentmindedly, she brushes away a loose strand of hair, like a muscle memory she cannot control. Some habits are impossible to break.

As his fever subsides, her nerves rise in a tense knot, settling themselves on her shoulders. It was easier to focus her energy on something tangible, something she had control over; now that his life is no longer in danger, thoughts she had never expected she would have to face resurface anew with fresh vigour.

She watches him sleep, from her spot in the corner armchair; it feels like a cushioned fortress where she barricades her feelings in and waits for the tide of the looming confrontation to arrive.

His chest rises and falls in even breaths, expression of calm softening his sharp features; he is thinner than when she last saw him, his cheeks hollower, but it is unmistakably him. The memory of all the nights she spent curled up in these arms, lulled to sleep by his steady heartbeat, flashes in her mind. There’s a slight warmth blossoming on her cheek; she can almost feel his skin against hers. His embrace was always so tempting. She averts her eyes and smothers the thoughts.

The day turns into night, but Bedelia cannot rest. Lying awake in her own bedroom, she feels her heart racing, dashing against her rib cage with sudden urgency. There have been sleepless nights before, too many to count, the reason behind them muted by faceless pharmaceuticals which bore with them no memories of the past. But now she cannot afford to blunt her mind; she stares at the ceiling while thoughts scamper in her mind. She can tell herself she is worried about the FBI coming (they already did, she sent them away) or Hannibal’s state worsening (it is improving rapidly), but it is for nought. Three years should have been enough to lock her feelings away and leave them be in hope they would wither and vanish. But she underestimated the power of her own heart. Love is a tricky thing to steer.

 

The following morning, she assesses the damage of the lack of sleep in the mirror, masking the dark circles under her eyes, faintly hoping it might conceal any other emotions showing on her face. She then goes to check the guest bedroom and is not surprised when she finds the bed empty, sheets arranged neatly, as if the last two days were merely a dream. One she refused to admit she has ever had.

Guided by the inviting smell of freshly brewed coffee, she makes her way downstairs, taking an extra time with each step and organising her mind, feeling woozy after the restless night.

She is even less surprised when she sees him in a kitchen, his natural habitat above all. He busies himself with the coffee maker, half naked, his back turned. The déjà vu strikes her so intensely, she stops at the threshold, unable to move. Too many of their mornings started like that, the only difference now is the bandage wrapped securely around his waist. Bedelia’s eyes scrutinise it now, expecting to see an unwanted splash of scarlet among the white, indicating a broken stitch, but finds nothing. Still, he should not have left the bed. Her gaze now shifts to the dishes laid out on the counter; egg whites on rye, her favourite. Of course, he would remember that.

Hannibal turns to face her, a cup in his hand and a smile on his face.

“Good morning,” he says, placing the coffee in front of her, made just the way she likes. He acts so natural as if nothing had changed, as if the last three years were nothing more than a nightmare she couldn’t wake up from.

She stares at the cup, not knowing what to say; she senses something cracking inside her and uses all her strength to keep the pieces together.

“Do you take you coffee differently?” he asks, seeing her staring, his tone voicing both consternation at her change of habit and eagerness to learn all the new things about her.

“No,” she finds her own voice, “Thank you.”

She takes the cup, relieved that her hands remain steady as she wraps her fingers around the bowl, reassured by holding something so palpable, when everything else appears so surreal.

Taking a small sip, she tries to ignore Hannibal’s eyes now focused solely on her. It seems years of imprisonment did nothing to dim their spark of intensity. Or perhaps it is because of her. The notion makes her heart flutter and she dismisses it at once.

“You are more beautiful than I remember,” he utters, his voice vibrates with emotion.

Bedelia takes another mouthful of her drink, welcoming the bitterness on her tongue, preventing herself from biting her lips. She looks up, meeting his eyes with a fierce stare of her own, and fights a further urge to comment on this cheap attempt of a compliment.

But compliments are never cheap when it comes to Hannibal, words are never overused; her face feels suddenly warm and the cracks within her deepen.

“I watched your lecture,” he continues when she remains silent, “Courtesy of Doctor Bloom, in exchange for allowing two PhD students to interview me,” he chuckles into his own cup of coffee.

“I do not think they got what they were looking for,” he sets it down, “They would benefit more from talking to you. You always had a better grasp on me, Doctor Du Maurier.”

He looks at her again with a fresh grin on his lips and she is not sure what to make of his words.

“You were brilliant, as usual,” he adds, his gaze still adoring, “Watching your mind at work has been the most beautiful thing to behold at all times. Never satisfied, constantly searching.”

At least her pursual did not cause her to almost lose her life, unlike his did, she swallows the remark before it reaches her lips. _Or did it?_

She places the empty cup on the saucer, more harshly then intended, and the clink of porcelain rings loudly in the persisting silence.

“Your eggs are getting cold,” he prompts quietly, once again seamlessly falling back into their routine.

“You shouldn’t be up, Hannibal,” she ignores his comment and his eyes, “The stitches are still fresh and you need to rest. I will change your dressing.”

Not waiting for his response, she gets up and leaves the kitchen, heading back upstairs. She does not care if he will follow her, although it is most certain that he will; she needs to clear her head anew. It felt as though the oxygen had suddenly vanished from the space between them.

Bedelia enters the guest bedroom again, finding the dressing supplies right where she left them, set up orderly on the bedside table. Her medical kit is always ready for almost any emergency. Is it an old habit from her medicine years or has she subconsciously waited for this day? Anger takes over her mind as she tears the gauze pack open in an abrupt manner, noticing her hands now shaking. She takes a deep breath in and out, trying to calm herself; she can sense Hannibal standing in the distance, not crossing the threshold, waiting for an invitation, even though it is not at all necessary. She had invited him in repeatedly.

“What do you want from me, Hannibal?” she asks sharply, not looking at him, “What part do you intend for me to play now?” Apart from being his personal Florence Nightingale that is, a role she is growing tired of.

“We were never playing, not when it comes to _us_ , you know that,” he states firmly and takes a step closer. Bedelia’s hands continue to shake and she closes them tightly, fingers digging into her palms, as she attempts to collect herself and turns to face at him.

“I missed you so much,” he speaks softly.

The words take her aback, uttered so casually as if it were the most obvious of sentences. As if he was returning from a business trip, as if she hadn’t seen him bound and captive.

He keeps looking at her, the same gaze of devotion she remembered so well, two ambers always burning steadily in the back of her mind. A soft caress she feels on her skin each time she thinks of him.

Her chest tightens as her breaths turn shallow. An anxiety attack is the last thing she needs, she reasons, focusing hard on her bringing her breathing back to normal. Yet soon, there is a familiar pinch behind her eyes as they begin to burn. This is _much worse_.

Bedelia can feel tears brimming in her eyes, sloshing close to the edge, an overflowing glass of sentiments, finally tipping over. She senses the tide breaking and blinks the first drops away before rushing to the door and pushing past Hannibal without regard to manners. Crossing the hallway, she reaches the shelter of her own bedroom, before the tears start falling in earnest. She does all to try and stop them, but the more she seeks to calm herself, the more frantic her cry becomes. Her breath catches in her throat as she gasps among the pooling streams.

“Bedelia, are you alright?” Hannibal’s worried voice echoes from the doorway, the soft baritone she thought she would never hear again. The way his tongue wraps around her name always made her shiver; like it is the only word worth speaking, his personal secret spell.

Now it reverberates in the vast space of the bedroom, one that felt cold and empty ever since she had returned, never again feeling like her home. Because her home was somewhere else, caged and unattainable. A sob escapes her lips, becoming louder and more forceful, until it cracks her open completely, a force of its own.

“No,” she manages to speak through the ongoing weep, sensing him moving to stand behind her.

She does not want him to touch her, afraid the pieces of her will fall apart fully at the faintest of contacts. Keeping herself together with the last of her forcefulness, she gathers the courage to look at him. She knows her eyes are red, her face in disarray, and she is embarrassed for allowing herself to come apart so easily, especially in front of him. His silhouette is nothing but a blur now and she is grateful she cannot see his face, it would just make this worse. 

“I thought I would never see you again,” the tears keep pouring from her eyes and she cannot bring them to an end, “I thought you were dead.”

Any further words are overcome by another sob; Bedelia tries to subdue it by covering her mouth with her hand, but it just makes it more prominent. Not finding their release, the convulsive gasps take over her body, making her shake and unsteady on her feet, as if she no longer had any control over them.

It happens in a split second, firm arms wrapping around her small frame and pulling her closer. She does not fight it, there’s no strength left in her to do so; she lets him guide them both to sit on the edge of the bed.

Instinctively, she presses her face into his neck, burying her cries in his warm skin. She focuses on his embrace, letting her sobs drift away on their own. And he feels exactly how she remembered, tender and comforting. As though it is the only place she belongs in, a secluded spot he created in his arms, especially for her. She thought she had lost it forever.

The tears come without a warning this time, flowing hot from her eyes in a never-ending stream and spilling cold on his skin. The sobs make her tremble, each of them embodying a different loss, all the fragments of her happiness that were taken away from her.

She expects him to pull away at the continuous spectacle she makes of herself, but he doesn’t. Instead his arms envelop her further and he holds her tight, shielding her from everything, even herself. Her hand rests on his chest, fingers pressing into his flesh, holding onto him, a solace he didn’t know she needed. Her cries become more distant and somehow muffled, until they vanish into nothingness. The last thing she hears is his heartbeat, even and calming, then it all turns quiet.

 

Her awakening is slow, like emerging through dense water, her head feeling heavy, an emotional hangover that will linger for a long time. She opens her eyes briefly, eyelids still heavy and puffed up, taking in her surroundings. She is in her bed, although she does not remember lying down. And she is not alone. Her head is still pressed firmly against Hannibal’s chest, her arm splayed across his body. She does not know how much time has passed, but a quick glance at the window tells her it is getting dark; she has slept for the whole day.

Hannibal’s fingers gently stroke her hair; the touch evokes more memories and she is afraid it will split her heart open once more, but it seems there are no more tears left in her.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” her words are barely audible as her throat is dry and hurting.

She knows she should move, but she cannot bring herself to do so. She does not want his caress to end.

“You needed a rest,” he whispers, fingers tips still travelling down the length of her strands.

_How ironic_ , she thinks, since he is the one with a gunshot wound.

“You didn’t have to stay with me,” her tears are gone, but bits of resentment still float among the wreckage of her composure.

“I should have stayed with you always,” his voice trembles unexpectedly and Bedelia rests her chin on his chest to look up at him. She finds his eyes red, remnants of his own tears still clinging to their corners.

“I will never make you cry again, Bedelia,” he says heartfully, hand reaching out to cup her cheek.

Bedelia leans into his touch, no longer denying herself her yearnings. She rests her head back on his chest; her heart feeling lighter than it has been in years, sudden specks of anticipation sparkling within.

The rain of tears washed away the dust of hurt and now a bright light rises over their new start.

**Author's Note:**

> This one got away from me, it was meant to be just a drabble. Since it is not my first post s3ep13 fic, I tried not to repeat myself and focus on these particular moments between them. Hope that worked.


End file.
